The Locked Room: Secrets Unravel in Sorrow´s Storm

They say the mountain doesn't forget. It holds every footstep, every whispered confession, every scream swallowed by the mist. Long after the bodies are gone and the rituals are over, it remembers. Not with judgment, but with precision. The kind that cuts. I used to believe healing was a process-a ladder you climbed, rung by rung, until the pain was beneath you. But grief isn't vertical. It's circular.
It loops back when you least expect it, wearing a new face, speaking in a voice you thought you'd buried. This place was supposed to be a sanctuary. A retreat. A space to unburden. But the truth is, you don't come to the mountain to let go. You come to be claimed. And once it knows your name, it never stops calling.